


Worth

by librathecancer



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Class change mechanics, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Libra tries to use a sword because axes are heavy, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librathecancer/pseuds/librathecancer
Summary: “I have been fighting since I was a teen, and yet I cannot even hold a wooden sword without nearly taking off both of our heads.”“...Yes,” Lon’qu murmurs, voice slow and quiet in that way that it tends to be when he’s about to make a good point, “and I have been fighting nearly since birth, yet I cannot use a battle-axe nor a tome. So would you call me a poor warrior? Would you call me worthless?”~Libra tries something new and falls back on what he knows.
Relationships: Lon'qu/Riviera | Libra
Kudos: 23





	Worth

Libra’s grip is shaky around the base of a wooden sword, and his being radiates uncertainty as he casts a nervous glance to his partner and mentor. It feels strange, foreign; he must consciously resist the urge to shift his wavering grip. It’s a painful cycle that must have been going on for hours by now: he is a stubborn man, after all, and would rather continue trying to figure it out in silence than admit how lost he truly is. Without fail, each time he thinks he might have gotten it down, he suddenly fears at once that he holds the weapon too loosely, and so tightens his fingers around it until his palms sweat and his knuckles cramp; or perhaps he thinks his left hand should line up this way rather than that, and so adjusts both hands until he has the sword so twisted around in his grip that it falls right out of his grasp, landing directly on his foot with the wooden blade. For a moment, he simply stares down at what in a real fight would be a very painful injury for him, and then sighs his defeat, shoulders slumping as he gives in.

“This is embarrassing, Lon’qu.”

The responding grunt is very nearly affirmative, a gruff and short thing that tilts downwards at the end. Not at all a reply, and yet the most certain little sound Libra thinks he’s ever heard.

“You need to relax,” Lon’qu responds, and Libra sighs once again, because he knows that. He’s never adequately relaxed; he’s nearly certain that’s why Lon’qu had talked him into starting to train with a sword in the first place. As much as Libra had tried to hide it, he knows that Lon’qu had noted the exact week when his joints had gone creaky, that he watches closely each time Libra stretches his tired arms after a long day of lugging his axe around. (He’s been losing weight lately, too, though he’s loathe to admit it. He watches himself become skinnier every morning in the mirror; tries periodically to take in his shirts so they fit him again, only to be asked by a fellow healer about the bloodstains scattered around his clothes. He’ll make up something about a bug bite, an unclosed wound, a nasty rash- all to avoid admitting that he’s simply shrinking, and also a piss poor seamster.)

“Gods, I’m worthless at this,” Libra laments (and if the ‘at this’ is a little too quiet and deliberate to have been a part of his initial statement, if it’s more of an afterthought tossed in for consideration of Lon’qu’s limitless worry, then the brunet says nothing of it, so neither does the blond). The look Lon’qu gives him is soft but scolding, anticipatory for the gentle self-deprecation he’s grown so used to hearing from the monk, and Libra raises his eyebrows as he leans down to pick up his forgotten sword. “Truly, though. I’ve been fighting since I was a teen, and yet I cannot even hold a wooden sword without nearly taking off both of our heads.”

“...Yes,” Lon’qu murmurs, voice slow and quiet in that way that it tends to be when he’s about to make a good point, “and I have been fighting nearly since birth, yet I cannot use a battle-axe nor a tome. So would you call me a poor warrior? Would you call me worthless?”

“No, of course not-“

“Then you have no right to call yourself anything of the sort,” and his pretty black hair bounces a bit as he gives a curt nod and straightens his back, his expression solidified as though they had ended the conversation mutually. There’s a little gleam in his eye, too, that Libra doubts anyone else would recognize: a spark of mischief, of gently smug pride, and it tells him Lon’qu knows he’s won.

It’s at times like these when Libra realizes how well he knows Lon’qu, and just how much he cherishes the quiet, solid comfort of the younger man’s presence.

It’s always strange to think of Lon’qu as his junior. The difference between them is short of even half a year, but Lon’qu has such a gently mature presence, such a quiet, domestic wiseness about him that Libra can’t wrap his head around the idea that he’s been on the planet for anything short of a few centuries. (And yet when they’d first met, he was so skittish, so boyish, so seemingly young when compared to now... but Libra supposes the same could be said for himself. They had both been so frightened of each other, so nervous in one another’s presence, for the muffled fear that sat deep in both of their chests. It hadn’t taken Lon’qu awfully long to shed that fear- first for Libra, and then, through him, for the women of the Shepherds.

Libra only wishes he could say the same.)

“...Libra,” comes that familiar voice, gruff and gentle as ever, as though he hears every word that runs through the monk’s head. Libra smiles sheepishly, starts to apologize, is cut off. “I think we should postpone training for today.”

And it’s with a content sigh that Libra nods, looks to the sky, lets himself relax as the training sword falls to the ground once more. “I agree,” he says, sounding a little more breathless than intended. He hears Lon’qu’s quiet chuckle and hesitantly joins in, softly at first, but it’s not long before their combined volume has escalated. The nonsense of it all makes them laugh even harder, and eventually they end up in a giggly, breathless heap with Lon’qu flat on his back, Libra’s head sitting gently his chest. He can hear his myrmidon’s steady heartbeat beneath him, can feel it as if it were his own, and it’s at times like these when he feels himself fall in love all over again.


End file.
